


A Lonely Impulse of Delight

by Rosie_Rues



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-04
Updated: 2009-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Rues/pseuds/Rosie_Rues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spitfire AU. I've been reading about the female pilots of the Air Transport Auxiliary, and it seemed like the perfect wartime job for Gwen and Morgana.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lonely Impulse of Delight

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of want to write the rest of this AU now, with Morgana being wildly jealous that Arthur actually gets to fight in his plane (which is called Excalibur, and Merlin, who is the engineer, has painted a stupid picture on the nose and is terrified every time Arthur and Lancelot go flying off. Er, yes, stopping now).

Gwen stayed above the bad weather as long as she could, watching the shadow of the Spitfire float over the fleecy tops of the clouds. Up here, the sun was bright, but there was nothing to tell her where she was, whether she was even over land or sea. She kept to her heading, watching for any break in the clouds.

None appeared, and she looked at the petrol gauge. Twenty minutes, and she should have heeded her common sense and not let anyone goad her into flying in poor weather. Taking a breath, she eased the plane back down, anxiously watching the instruments she'd never been formally trained to use.

The clouds closed around her, wrapping her in greyness, and she sank down as if through water: two thousand feet, fifteen hundred, a thousand, six hundred and if she emerged into hilly country she was too low to pull out of a crash, but she couldn't risk rising again, not without something to give her bearings.

Then she was breaking free of the fog, over low fenland, and she could see the unmistakeable shape of an airfield a few miles ahead, mist curling up around the edges of the runway.

Once she set the plane down, she walked to the waiting officer. He stared at her, like they all did. She had long since stopped wondering if they were more astounded at her gender or her colour, so she just smiled politely and said, "Guinevere Smith, ATA, heading towards Grantham."

"Welcome to Steeple Morden," he said, waving his hand limply at the surrounding field. "You're several counties out. You girls really are something. Wouldn't catch any of my boys up there in these conditions."

His tone was condescending, despite his words, and Gwen fought to keep her smile steady, and murmured something about doing one's bit, all in the line of duty, of course.

He gave a little laugh. "Quite something. You're the second of your lot to set down here today."

"Oh?" Gwen asked, wondering who else had been stubborn enough to fly.

"Other girl said she likes this weather," he said, shaking his head, and Gwen's heart leapt.

She followed him across the field to the mess hall, surreptiously checking that her skirt was straight and tucking a wayward curl back under a pin. The officer, who had still not offered his name, didn't speak to her. Well, that was to be expected. Few men appreciated the arrival of girl in a Spit on a day when they were scared to fly. Two in one afternoon was bound to cause more than a little pique.

The mess hall was crowded, men gathered around the figure sitting on a central table as if it were a throne, glass of whiskey in one hand, cigarette trailing flight paths in the other, voice low and husky as she described a hard landing in Ceylon, before the war. Morgana LeFay had been flying since she was fourteen. Her father had been a general, her brother was a decorated fighter pilot, and her step-father was in bomber command. She had been the first woman to fly across Africa, had broken six world records and had an engine named in her honour. Since the war began, she had been ferrying planes across Britain whilst she campaigned for women to be allowed to fight as well as ferry. She had been shot out of the sky over the English channel, rumour claimed, yet had managed to land her broken plane and step out not only alive, but with her make-up immaculate.

Rumour also claimed (though Gwen knew the truth) that she had left a trail of broken hearts across Europe, and had declared that no man was worth as much as a good plane.

Now she looked up and surged to her feet in delight, pressing her drink into one admirer's hand and pressing through the crowd. "Gwen! Gwen!" She seized Gwen's hand and pulled her into the middle of the crowd. "This is my good friend Gwen, gentlemen - the best pilot in the sky."

"You're too kind," Gwen said politely. She wasn't one who thrived on attention, but she didn't mind sitting by Morgana's side, especially when her eyes were glittering like this. It wasn't as if she had to endure much attention, not after the first few curious stares. Morgana was a magnet, drawing them towards a pointless collision, and Gwen faded beside her and didn't care.

She fielded a few questions and shy attempts at flirtation as Morgana held court, mostly from those sweet-faced boys who were too intimdated to approach Morgana.

"What made you want to be a pilot?" one of them asked, staring over her shoulder at Morgana as her laugh rang out. It was code for what is someone who looks like you doing in a plane?, of course, but Gwen chose to avoid that. At least he had the tact not to ask outright, though that was happening less as the war went on.

"My father flew in the last war," she said simply, and left the rest of the story untold.

At last Morgana appeared at her side. There was a flush along her cheekbones, from the whiskey or the attention. "I'm for bed," she announced.

Gwen rose to her feet. "Where are we staying?" She hoped it wasn't too far out, or that one of Morgana's admirers was still fit to drive.

"There's a bed for us here," Morgana said and cast a warm glance over her shoulder. "Commander Owen is very kind."

_Only to you_, Gwen thought wryly, but followed Morgana out into the night.

 

*

 

The air was cold and sharp as they crossed the airfield, frost already crunching under their feet. Gwen huddled into her jacket, and kept close to Morgana, who was gazing at the sky as she walked, eyes fierce and hungry.

The commander's hut was little more than a shed, with one narrow cot and thick black-out blinds. It wasn't much warmer than the open air, but they'd slept in worse over the last few years, in empty waiting rooms and crowded tube stations, under canvas and below hedges, trekking their way back to HQ for the next flight. Gwen didn't bother to undress, but tucked her shoes under the bed and took the pins out of her hair. Then she slid under the blanket and held the edge up for Morgana. "Come on."

Morgana put out the lamp and slipped in next to her, pressing close so they could share the blanket. "They think they're so superior."

"I know," Gwen said softly, touching Morgana's hair. It was soft and heavy on the pillow.

"They think we're a joke."

"We're not," Gwen murmured. Morgana smelt of leather and oil and, very faintly, of expensive perfume. Her cheek was very warm against Gwen's.

For a moment, Morgana was quiet. Then she said, "I shouldn't have flown today."

Gwen didn't know what to say to that, so she just curled her fingers further into Morgana's hair.

"I thought I was going to die." The English veneer of her accent suddenly peeled away. "_Nor law, not duty bade me fight._ I can't stay on the ground, Gwen. I can't bear not to fly."

"I know," Gwen said. "I know."

"They'll ground you all, when the war is done."

"They'll ground us," Gwen said sharply and felt Morgana smile against her cheek, lips brushing the corner of Gwen's mouth.

"I fly too dangerously," she confessed, voice soft, almost shy. "I'll die in the air, Gwen."

Gwen wanted to argue against it; beg her to take care, to think a little about her own life. But Morgana wouldn't be Morgana without risk, so she just sighed and shifted her head to brush her lips across Morgana's.

"Oh," Morgana said and returned the kiss, slow and warm and soft. They'd done this before, countless times, and it never failed to comfort Gwen, whether it was this gentle or as fierce and demanding as only Morgana could be.

Morgana's arms closed around her, tugging her close, her hands tracing slow circles on Gwen's back. They kissed for a long time, chapped lips catching as their breathing quickened and their hands roamed, but always slowing again, because they could not fly forever, could not grow wings and take to the air themselves, but this, this alone, could last.

When they slept, Morgana's head was pillowed on Gwen's shoulder, and Gwen's hand was tucked into Morgana's waistband, anchoring her to the ground.

 

#

 

The next day was the usual scramble across country, lifts in army trucks to unsignposted stations, trains delayed by bombing further up the line, the devastation of London. At last, though, they were on a train back to White Waltham, with a compartment to themselves. The skies were clear today, and the wind perfect, so they pulled the window down. Gwen rested her head on Morgana's shoulder, and Morgana pressed a sly kiss to her hair, and they both gazed up and out at the endless, waiting sky.


End file.
